Friday, February 3, 2017

I have quite clearly been at a loss for words these past few weeks. Well, I've had words, but most of them aren't fit to print. "WTF?!" doesn't exactly make for constructive dialogue.

As I transition out of my role of full-time cancer patient and into whatever comes next: survivor, I suppose, though that is still such a strange word for me; advocate, about which I hope to write more soon; and adjunct law professor teaching international law twice a week (yes, really), I'm still trying to find my footing in a post-MBC world, and now, also, in a post-factual one, too.

And while this is a breast cancer blog that's sometimes about parenting or research or even finances or sexuality or grief, I cannot ignore my past as a lawyer/lobbyist and the dire threat to healthcare -- and our constitution itself -- that now exists. So this may also become a blog about policy and politics, too, to some extent. Just a fair warning for my readers because I'm sure that not all of you share my voting record or worldview. I hope you'll stick around regardless. At the end of the day, we're all in this together. I welcome debate here (or in person!); just please keep it civil.

For those of us who are friends on Facebook or other social media, you might have seen my statement shortly after the election that Trump's win felt oddly similar to being diagnosed with cancer. The cold fear was familiar to me, as was the sense that I had just lost control and my innocence in one fell swoop.

Here's the deal: I am not a "snowflake," as some people are characterizing those of us expressing our sadness at what our country is facing: the potential loss of the rule of law and human rights, or respect for free speech and science. Our grief is warranted. I am no withering petal.

No one gets through nearly 5 years of cancer treatment without some deep resolve and fortitude.

My opposition to the new administration is not a partisan matter. I am a patriot. I studied history and the law, marveling at our founding fathers and the lasting power of our Constitution. I grew up in a military household where the Fourth of July was almost as important as Christmas. I can't really carry a tune (ask Chris), but I hummed along to Lee Greenwood's anthem with tears of pride in my eyes every summer.

This American "experiment" we've been involved in for the past 240 years? I want to see it endure. I believe in it, flaws and all.

One of my students asked me the other day whether I thought the new administration's actions were hurting our standing in the world, and if so, what we could do to correct this course. My answer was strangely similar to what I'd tell a newly diagnosed cancer patient, and at least one (conservative) author seems to agree with me.

I told her we need to continue to speak up for our beliefs and interests. I would tell a cancer patient she has to be her own best advocate. The protests and boycotts and what one friend tells me are hundreds of thousands of calls per hour to congressional phone lines are making a difference. We are being heard. It is an uphill climb, but I'd argue our lives and liberty are worth it.

On the other end of the spectrum, all of this advocacy, just like being a patient, can be exhausting. It is SO important to engage in self-care. Get enough sleep, even if it means resorting to a tablet of Benadryl (note, I am NOT a doctor, and this is not meant to be medical advice). Exercise regularly. My guess is boxing classes will be filling up quickly as more and more of us feel the need to punch something. Eat plenty of vegetables, even when you feel nauseated. It is important to refuel yourself to get back into the arena, for this will be a long, drawn-out match.

We don't want to burn ourselves out. We have so much work to do. We have been knocked down (and I don't mean liberals, I mean our very democracy). We must stand up again and again and again, like the old Japanese proverb says. Ask any cancer patient.

Welcome

Writing about my journey at the intersection of metastatic breast cancer and motherhood. Diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer at age 32 and when my son was just five months old, this is the story of how I've learned to take life one day at a time -- through treatment, potty training, and, eventually, recovery.